


It Ends At The Beginning

by whatagoodboy



Category: Glee, Glee RPF, Struck By Lightning
Genre: Crossover, M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 15:41:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatagoodboy/pseuds/whatagoodboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris and Carson are roommates at Northwestern. Carson didn't die, Chris didn't move to L.A. Hijinks ensue.</p><p>It's a wonder they don't actually kill each other...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cracked Phones And Weird Days

**Author's Note:**

> No idea whatever at how one goes about tagging/warning for something that is half-RPF. Chris Colfer is real. Carson Phillps, sadly, is not.
> 
> HalfPF?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carson Phillips wants to be at Northwestern University. He just doesn't want to have to interact with anyone while there. This could be a problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half-RPF, you guys. Chris Colfer is real. Carson Phillps is not.

“Carson, call your mother. Carson. Call. Your. Mother. Y’know what would be a good idea? Calling your mother. One day, there was a wiseassed kid who PICKED UP THE PHONE AND CALLED HIS MOTHER. Have you heard that story already? It was on the New York Times Bestseller List, so probably. Call. Me. I gave birth to you, you could pick up the phone. Carson…”

  
I swear to God. I’m not sure if Apple Care covers “I threw my phone so I’d stop hearing my mother prattling on and on in a neverending voicemail” damage. Doubtful. I haven’t talked to her in three days. Let that small amount of time sink in for a second. Three days. 72 hours. Can a person actually be addicted to another person? I should look it up.

Sheryl’s just upset that I got out. Out of Clover. Unlike her, I actually have new and exciting things to do today. First day of Big Boy School. I’ve been practicing making my expression neutral all day-as if I’m not ready to crap my pants in fear at this prospect.

There’s a huge difference living a life focusing all of your energy into escaping from a place, and the day you wake up and realise you’ve actually done it. All of that effort paid off.

It’s pretty great to know, not gonna lie. The only problem is, I don’t actually know what the fuck happens next.

See, as annoying as high school was-I had a routine going there. (Sort of a limping along, seething in annoyance one, yeah, but it worked.)

I have no idea. It’s like there are eighty five roads ahead of me, and there’s an impatient driver behind me, waiting for me to turn on my signal and make a goddamned choice, already.

Classes start in an hour. My roommate is sighing on his side of the room dramatically every five seconds. Jesus, I hope he’s not going to expect me to bond. I. Don’t. Bond. If he presses play, and any sort of weepy music comes out of his laptop speakers, I might barf.

Not just regular barf, but that horrifyingly technicolour kind that happens in horror movies. It’s just…

GOD. Another sigh. Dude.

Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuude.

Am I supposed to ask him if he’s alright? I need a new person handbook. Or, a New Person In College So Try And Function Slightly LIke A Normal Person Carson Handbook. Part of me wants to tell him that I’m not actually accepting applications for new friends right now.

Except, I kind of am. Looking for friends. Okay, fine-friend. A. Friend. I’ve done a lot of reading that suggests that actually connecting with people is good for you. Connecting with people? I can’t believe I just wrote that.

My brain said “connecting with people”.

There must be something in the Chicago water or something. Only explanation.

Shit. Classes start in 48 minutes. Chris is still sighing over there like a champ. Carson Phillips Takes Evanston?

I’ve planned for this day for the last…forever. I can do this. I’m gonna kick this school’s ass. I’m going to write brilliant things, grab the world by the balls…

43 minutes.

Fuck. My palms should not be this sweaty, my heartbeat should not feel this erratic. I’m not about to deep breathe or any bullshit like that. But.

Maybe I’ll call my mother.

And ask Chris what the everliving fuck he’s all a’sigh about.

Day One. Here we go.

—————————————————————-

 

Aren’t you from California too?”

Yeah, I opened with that. Not my finest conversational hour, but I was trying. I should at least get five points or so for effort.

He raised his head off of his pillow and aimed a glare at me. It was a damned good glare too, not that I’m telling him that.

“Wait. What?” Chris asked.

I’m not sure what part of my question confused him. Generally, asking someone where they’re from doesn’t elicit confusion.

“You’re really pale. Ghostly so, in fact.” I told him.

He snorted, glared a bit longer, then whumped his head back into his pillows. Chris has far comfier looking pillows than I have, by the way. Not that is in any way relevant to this tale. Anyway…

I was trying, damn it. I really wanted the kid to talk to me. Well, talk to me or stop sighing. One or the other. I glanced at my watch, and figured I’d have to leave in the next five minutes or so to be able to go and locate my first class. (Which was English 101. I’d already named it Kill Me Please 101—and I hadn’t set foot in the class yet. What? I know how the entire semester is going to go down. The professor is going to hate me, I’ll be inappropriately snarky and cranky because, “Yay! More essays. I haven’t been writing essays for the last 8 years. Please, teach me about thesis statements. That is so extraordinarily helpful, gee whiz, golly Mister Teacher Man.”)

I guess I may have tapped my foot, or let out a sigh or something, because Chris sat up quickly and looked me straight in the eye.

“Carson. That is your name, right? Yeah, I’m also from California. Here’s the thing I don’t understand: you apparently possess enough intellect to get into this school, yet the first thing you choose to say to me is, “Aren’t you from California too?” he asked softly.

He didn’t sound pissy or mad. Mostly, he just sounded sorta…worn down.

I didn’t know what to say. Alright, so maybe I wasn’t going to be winning any awards for social skills—but I didn’t see a huge problem. It has been brought to my attention one or two (or a million) times that I have a tendency to sound snotty and bitter.

“I, um, well…fine. I was absent on Play Nicely With Others Day?” I tried, aiming for un-snotty and perfectly well-adjusted.

He laughed. The corners of his eyes gave it away first. It was strange, Chris didn’t laugh like most people. It hit his eyes first. They widened for a second-as if he was actually surprised by the fact he was amused, then they got all scrunched up. His nose twitched. No, really—the thing twitched. Only when his bluey-green eyes were crinkled up, and his nose figured out where it wanted to be did his mouth get into the game.

I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen anyone smile in a three-step process, but Chris did. His lips parted, and he just full-on grinned. Eyes, nose, lips.

I couldn’t look away. The kid went from deadly silent—glaring at me like I was the world’s biggest ass—to beaming, shoulder-shaking laughter in a couple of seconds. It was very, very, cool. (Vaguely unsettling also, but I’ll talk about that later.)

“You are not like all of the other boys, are you Carson?” he giggle-asked.

Look, it’s not easy to shut me the hell up. I am fully aware. Chris did it. It was like he had some sort of magical powers or something.

“No. No, I’m not. All of those other boys you’re talking about? Yeah, they pretty much suck. I have spent the last eighteen years making a valiant effort to NOT suck”, I said. “Plus? You’re fucking pale for a Californian. Yes, that is not a genius observation—but I didn’t have much to work with. That’s all I’ve got on you, except for the non-smoking, gay, Christian, part the school notified me about on our informational packet things.”

Chris stopped laughing for a beat.

“I’m pale because outside is where the nature lives. The only use I have for the outdoors is—that’s where the good climbing trees are, and my dogs have to go out there or poop in my house. Pooping indoors? Not optimal if you’re a canine. Maybe a bit better if you’re human…” he said.

Yeah, I’m pretty sure I just blinked at him like an idiot for a minute after that. I just didn’t have a comeback. I ALWAYS have a comeback.

“Have I said poop too many times?” Chris asked.

(Told you I stood there all confused and without a comeback.)

“Mmmmmmm, nah,” I said. “I just also noticed that your teeth are very small. A little like Chiclets, actually.”

He smiled, and started to laugh again.

“Jesus. You are something. I don’t know exactly what sort of something yet, but…” Chris said.

I couldn’t disagree with him. I’ve been called lots of different things, but not many people threw names at me while looking in any way amused or vaguely interested in getting to know me. Even my mother, she of the—”CALL ME CARSON. CALL ME. I WILL WITHER AND DIE WITHOUT YOUR SMARTASSERY” doesn’t look amused at ninety-nine percent of the shit that comes out of my mouth.

I glanced at my watch. It was time to go. Higher education called. Or something.

“You, uh…I have class. Soon. Extremely soon. You?” I asked.

Chris slowly rose of off his bed, stretching a bit like a cat as he straightened and stood up fully.

“Yep. English 101. Somewhere, in a hall or a galaxy far, far, away.” he answered.

It was then I found out that he’s a geek. Dork. A Geekdork. Great. Except I love science fiction. Sheryl teases me about it mercilessly. The last time she did, I erased all five seasons of Divorce Court she’d saved on the DVR. Payback is an evil bitch.

Right. I had to go.

As I reached for the door handle to leave, I had a thought. A thought which I apparently said out loud.

“Hey, you want to meet later and discuss English 101 tales of woe?” I wondered over my shoulder, in Chris’ direction.

He sighed softly. Seriously, the guy likes to sigh.

“Yeah, I’d…I’d really like that.” he responded.

He’d like that. That was new. New, and more than just a tiny bit scary as shit. I hadn’t been actively nervous about much in the last few years. Waiting to get into Northwestern was pretty much it.

Suddenly, I found myself feeling like I was going to randomly cry—afraid of new classes and my new life, AND, worried that I actually wanted someone to like me for the first time I could remember.

“Okay.” I said. “Cool. We’ll meet back here in two hours or so?”

“Okay.” Chris said. “We can maybe have lunch, and talk about things that are not poop-related, or my paleness and tiny teeth?”

Then I laughed. I hardly ever do unless someone is being an obtuse douche. You’d be surprised how often that happens, actually. Nope, I laughed in a good, holy-crap-I’m-in-a-good-mood-alert-the-media way.

As I stepped out into the hallway, I heard Chris behind me.

“Carson? Play well with others. See you later.”

 


	2. The Future Is So Bright I Can't See For Shit

I'm not even sure why I like him. Or, rather, why I think I _could_ like him eventually.

The first time I saw the kid, he didn't even meet my eyes. Carson Phillips. Eighteen. Clover, California. Graduated from Clover High School, good student-not amazing, but solid. Lots of journalism experience. Religious affiliation? Left blank. Same thing for sexual orientation. Not much to go on. When the manilla envelope had arrived with a Northwestern return address, Hannah had raced up the stairs to my room and basically tossed the packet at my head.

"Chris! It's from your new college! Open it!", she'd crowed loudly.

My sister was far more enthusiastic about the prospect of me living with a stranger in a new city than I. Of all the new experiences I was bound to have at college-living with a random person for months at a time was very low on my list of ones that sounded fun in any way. I'm not so good with sharing my space. Strike that, I'm pretty much absolutely crappy at sharing my space. I didn't get much of a choice in the matter though. "All incoming Freshman must live on campus, in University Housing..." my acceptance package informed me.

 _O-kay. Fine_. I'd resigned myself to the information. I wanted to know at least a few basic facts about the kid I'd be stuck with. As I ripped at the orange-hued paper to see what my fate held, Hannah plopped herself down on the bed beside me, and peered over my shoulder expectantly. "Chris! Hurry uuuuuuuup. You can see who the guy is--maybe you'll be best friends!" she said.

I had my doubts. I can count on one one hand the people I actually care about. When the time had come for me to fill out my own prospective roommate paperwork, I'd dutifully checked boxes next to the "choose one" questions. Religion?. Christian, ticked off. Sexual orientation? Gay, also ticked.

(As a random aside, I'd just figured out the gay part. How I really didn't know earlier, I'm not quite sure. Frankly, my dick figured it out first, and my brain took a year or so to catch up. Not that I've ever had a boyfriend, or a kiss or...anything, really.) I figured honesty was the best policy though. There was an option of "other" that I'd considered marking, but then I couldn't quite wrap my brain around what sorts of thoughts and behaviours would fall under "other". A big part of me wanted to respond,"I'm new to this whole thing. Who knows?" under the question. Regardless, I filled out the little bubble next to gay, and moved on.

There was a small, "about me" section to do next. It felt a bit like I was filling out a questionnaire for a dating service.

Awk. Ward.

I put down my experiences with Speech and Debate, the theatre department, The Writer's Club, and made mention of writing for the school paper. Was I supposed to put down my favourite colours and stuff like that?. I didn't know. I kept it pretty brief. For the question about future career plans, I put down, "Writer." Short, and to the point. That's what I've always wanted to do, tell stories. I don't care if it's as an actor, novelist or screenwriter. Fiction or non-fiction, whichever.

(Not that I think anyone'd be interested in reading any tales about my life so far. I'm from the most uninspiring, uninteresting, town in the history of towns. Clovis has a lot of small-minded people, doing small-minded things. I'm running the risk of sounding like I think I'm better than everyone in Clovis. I don't think I'm better necessarily-just shaped in some way that intrinsically just doesn't fit here.)

When I mailed my form back, I thought I'd given a fairly descriptive and informative (if fairly whitewashed) biography of myself.

Carson apparently either didn't give a shit about the task on his end, or lacked an iota of imagination. Seeing as he'd been accepted to Northwestern, and had written simply: "No writing? No life." under the space for career interests, I settled on the didn't give a shit option. He left the sexual orientation box blank. I didn't even get an "other" to work with.

I'm not sure how this is possible, but Carson actually managed to convey a surly, detached air from a two page long blurb about himself. Needless to say, I didn't have extremely high hopes for him as I held my campus map in my teeth, and fumblingly unlocked the door to our suite with one hand while clutching two suitcases in the other on my first day in Evanston. I had shown up late for registration and check in, still wiping semi-dried vomit off of my paperwork-leftover thanks to Hannah and a badly timed bout of motion sickness.

Yes, I was feeling less-than-stellar as I schlepped my suitcases to the third floor of Thomas Hall. My mom and dad offered to help me up, but I was ready to just get the whole journey started. I hugged my family goodbye, avoiding Hannah's still gross torso, aiming a kiss to the top of her head instead. Mom cried. Hannah cried. Dad? Looked like he was going to. I didn't. I was feeling too much to do so. There was a giant lump in my throat though--it felt like years of worry were built up behind it.

"Call us any time, okay? Let us know how you settle in?" Mom asked.

All I could do was nod, and try to remember how to breathe. "I will, you guys. Promise. I'll be okay." I said.

Even as I said that I'd be fine, I heard the tremble in my voice that betrayed that I wasn't actually so sure. As I turned away, I couldn't bring myself to look behind me. It was like I was walking out of one skin and heading toward an existence in a new one.

As the metal door to our suite clanged open, I stopped and sighed at the threshold. I wasn't sure I was altogether ready to meet the guy I'd be spending months with. One side of the room was clearly set aside for me-the other one had books all over the place. Little, neat, stacks, big ones--about ready to tip over with a hearty breath. On a spindly-looking bed was Carson. Or, the guy I hoped was Carson.

He was lying lengthwise, his feet touching the wall near his pillows, and his head was hanging off of the end of the mattress. An iPhone was on the floor in front of him. He was glaring at it, as if he wanted to kick its ass.

Deciding against greeting him with a handshake, I dropped my bags on the ground next to myself, and waited for him to look up. He did so--eventually. I raised my hand in greeting. Carson just raised one eyebrow in my general direction and went back to staring at his phone.

 _Okay, then_. I thought.

Guessing that our time for bonding had passed, I set about trying to unpack some of my things without looking like it was in any way a big deal for me. Never mind that it totally _was_. I'd never had to share a room with anyone.

Jesus, I could count the number of sleepovers I'd had on one hand still--and I'm eighteen years old. Nevertheless, my stomach was growling, I had a bitch of a headache coming up behind my left eye-and I was expected to show up at a class in a couple of hours. I stowed some stuff in the little chipboard dresser the school supplied, and put suitcases under my bed. After a bit, I decided to lie down on my new, extra-long, extra weirdly skinny bed for a while.

Carson stayed in the same position I'd initially seen him in. Until he threw his phone.

Yeah.

Carson threw his phone.

It bounced of the wall opposite him, and slid under his bed. He made no motion to pick the thing up. Great, he was a surly, phone-throwing, psychopath. My luck. I lay with my laptop on my chest, trying to decide if I could muster up enough energy to eat before class when...

"Aren't you from California too?" Carson asked.

I almost shrieked. Almost. He scared the everliving shit out of me. From the other side of the room, Carson blinked at me curiously. I was struck dumb--no idea what to say. Honestly? I wanted to tell him to fuck right off. Something told me that perhaps that might not be the best course of "I'm trying to get off on the right foot with you" action. I decided to be honest. I just couldn't give enough of a crap to be super nice.

"Wait, what?" I asked him, unable to form more of an intelligent sentence.

"You're really pale. Ghostly so, in fact." he said.

I slammed my head back into my pillows. For eighteen years, people had been finding exceedingly unoriginal things to call me--completely obvious details about my person commented upon. I was done. More than done, actually.

"Carson. That is your name, right? Yeah, I'm also from California. Here's the thing I don't understand: you apparently possess enough intellect to get into this school, yet the first thing you choose to say to me is, "Aren't you from California too?" I asked him quietly.

Again, he didn't respond right away. Carson just blinked at me kind of stupidly for another beat.

Something I couldn't name coloured his expression. It softened somehow. Hell, it could have been a trick of light or shadow--but he looked smaller for a second. Vulnerable, or unsure.

"I,um, well...fine. I was absent on Play Nicely With Others Day?" he offered.

I couldn't help it. I laughed. It snuck up on me, I swear. _Play Nicely With Others Day_? Before I could contain it--a giggle burst out of my chest. Ah, a wiseass. Perhaps a damaged wiseass. I tend to get along best with masters of wiseassery. Not generic, "pull mah finger" wiseassery, mind. More the kind that leaves anyone in hearing distance slightly baffled as to what the hell you could possibly be talking about.

As my shoulders shook with laughter that, frankly, felt really good--if not more than a bit intense than I'd expect, Carson's eyes widened. One corner of his mouth turned up, and he looked amused. Mr. Couldn't-Care-Less looked amused.

"You are not like all of the other boys, are you Carson?" I asked him.

Shit. _Shitshitshitshitshitshit_ I thought, feeling frantic. I had been getting crapped on for being gay since the fucking third grade. In third grade, I could barely manage wiping my own ass--never mind having the vaguest clue about sex and sexuality, but the other kids taunted me about it anyway. Douchebags.

Something in my head cleared, and I decided to run with it. I wasn't flirting with the kid after all, and I guessed that I didn't really owe him any sort of explanation. Carson had seen my little checked box, I assumed--also, college was rumoured to be different than high school. If the guy got all "homo cootie" about one comment? We were going to have a major problem.

"No. No, I'm not. All of those other boys you're talking about? Pretty much suck. I have spent the last eighteen years making a valiant effort to NOT suck", he said. "Plus? You're fucking pale for a Californian. Yes, that is not a genius observation--but I didn't have much to work with. That's all I've got on you, except for the non-smoking, gay, Christian, part the school notified me about on our informational packet things."

He'd seen the boxes I'd checked. Right. I thought for a minute.

"I'm pale because outside is where the nature lives. The only use I have for the outdoors is--that's where the good climbing trees are, and my dogs have to go out there or poop in the house. Pooping indoors? Not optimal if you're a canine. Maybe a bit better if you're human..." I trailed.

That response ended up a lot longer than I'd intended for it to be. As I'd rambled, Carson sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and trained his eyes on me. His head was tipped slightly to the side, as if he was trying to get a read on me.

"Have I said poop too many times?" I asked.

Carson may have actually cracked the tiniest smile then.

"Mmmmmmmm, nah." he said. "I just also noticed that your teeth are very small. A little like Chiclets, actually."

 _Jesus. Gum_. He compared my teeth to little nuggets of chewing gum. I didn't even know where the hell to put this kid. He wasn't shaping into anything I could place into any stereotype box easily.

"Jesus. You are something. I don't know exactly what sort of something yet, but..." I said.

Carson looked away from me, and glanced at his watch. "You, uh...I have class. Extremely soon. You?" he wondered.

Class. My first ever college class. I did have one starting in less than an hour. I pulled myself off of my bed and stretched a little before I answered. "Yep. English 101. Somewhere, in a hall or a galaxy far, far, away." I said.

 _Let the kid know about my geeky tendencies right off the bat_ , I thought.

Carson stood up, straightened his blue hoodie and made his way to the door. I noticed he never picked up his phone from under his bed as he reached for the handle to leave.

He turned his head slightly, and spoke to me over his left shoulder. "Hey, you want to me later and discuss English 101 tales of woe?"

I sighed, and considered his question. Did I want to meet him later? Peering up at the ceiling of the room, I felt my answer float up from my gut.

"Yeah, I'd really like that." I answered.

"Cool, we'll meet back here in two hours or so?" he asked.

I figured that if I survived my first college class without wanting to run away screaming or stabbing a fellow classmate in the eye with a pen, that I would really like to see how meeting up with Carson worked out.

"Okay." I said. "We can maybe have lunch, and talk about things that are not poop-related, or my paleness and tiny teeth?"

He laughed. It was a surprisingly nice sound. Carson sounded a little breathy and somehow unguarded. Suddenly, the prospect of living with Carson Phillips didn't seem even half as bad as it did initially. I'm not one for unbridled optimism, but I had a feeling that I might actually make a friend out of the deal.

As he stepped into the hallway, I called after him, "Carson? Play well with others. See you later."


End file.
